


Fill You Up

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caretaking, Enemas, Feeding Kink, Force-Feeding, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Kink, Subspace, Suppository, sub!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Sherlock fails to care for himself properly, John must step in to do it for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how sometimes something turns you on, but you're not sure why? Yeah.

Sherlock wakes to find himself seated, wrists and ankles secured to a chair.

Without opening his eyes he shifts slightly. From the distinctive creak, it's one of his own chairs, the wooden one in the kitchen. He flexes. The restraints are padded, designed for his comfort.

John.

Sherlock relaxes again.

A hand pats his cheek. "Found you passed out on the stairs, mate. You haven't been eating."

Sherlock hums. It was a worthy case.

"What did we agree? You respect the transport, or you let me deal with it."

From the feel of it, John has dressed him in his dressing-gown. Most likely because it opens in the front to allow unimpeded access to his body. He’s naked underneath it, of course.

In his mind’s eye Sherlock can perfectly picture his unconscious self, dragged up the stairs, into John’s bedroom. He would have been laid face down over the edge of the bed; it’s the only way that John, both lighter and shorter than he, could have stripped him out of his tight trousers. He can see his own white buttocks exposed to the room, the pale backs of his thighs.

John would have taken the opportunity to briskly assess the transport; taken his pulse, his temperature (via the rectum, Sherlock suspects, from the slight twinge in his backside), felt and tutted over the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, his concave belly. All impersonal appraisal.

"Right, then. You can’t say you didn’t know this was coming, I suppose. Open up.”

Sherlock opens his mouth slowly. He does hate this. John takes by the chin and guides it down, easing the metal ring into his mouth, tucked behind his teeth. "That’s it, nice and wide," he soothes. "Close your eyes, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn’t close them. He can’t. John sighs, with his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He touches Sherlock a lot when they’re like this. "Ok, then I’m going to get the cloth," he says.

"Aahng," says Sherlock.

Then John is behind him, tying a wide black strip of silk over Sherlock’s eyes, binding them closed. "I know, I know, you don’t like that. But you’re so much better behaved like this, aren’t you, yes you are. Now, chin up, Sherlock." Fingers guide his head into position. "Just like that, good man."

If Sherlock can't keep his head tipped just to John's satisfaction, John has a thick cervical collar with a chin rest that will hold it perfectly. They only had to use it once.

Something rubber slides into Sherlock’s held-open mouth, pinning his tongue. He whines, and John pats his chest in response but he doesn’t stop setting up the gravity refeeder. He straps it into place and puts the setting on drip feeding.

Sherlock moans and squirms at the first taste of sweet, salty gruel, but john has him bound tight – he can’t move away. "Just swallow normally, there's a lamb," says John. "You’re fine."

As if Sherlock can do anything but swallow normally. It’s not like he can move, or see, or talk. He can hum, but mostly that just causes him to lick the teat of the feeder and get more gruel.

He knows John blends the feeding solution himself out of whatever ingredients he deems nourishing. He distracts himself by trying to guess the concoction this time. Chia seeds, he thinks. Ground flax? Salt, obviously. Honey.

He can hear the sounds of John tidying the tea-things and doing the washing up. Every once in a while he comes over and checks the volume of the bag.

John leaves him on the drip feeder for about forty minutes, long enough to get a full day's calories into him.

Finally John opens the front of his robe (businesslike, no hesitation) and pushes the cold disc of his stethoscope against Sherlock’s abdomen. Moves it lower - he must be close to the line of Sherlock’s thin, straggly pubic hair. “I’m not hearing the bowel sounds I’d like,” he notes. “When’s the last time you had a BM?”

Sherlock tries to lick his lips but John knows he can’t answer, not the way the teat invades his mouth; he can barely even move his head.

“Right, we’ll deal with that next,” says John. He leaves the front of the robe hanging over and goes to check the bag. Sherlock can hear it crinkle as he squeezes out the very last of the slop, and a second later the amount flowing into his guts increases; he whines, and swallows faster. Then it trails off.

"Think that should do it for the moment," says John. Finally he pulls the heavy nozzle out of Sherlock’s mouth. "Just water now," he promises, repositioning Sherlock's head so he can dribble in little sips from the bottle.

Being full makes Sherlock feel heavy and lethargic. Being gagged and blindfolded makes him compliant. He drinks everything John gives him. At one point he almost starts to cough, but John hooks his fingers under his chin, lifting it up, opening his airway, and the feeling passes.

Finally John removes the ring holding Sherlock's mouth open. He spends a few minutes massaging his jaw, fingers digging into the hinge. Tugs his mouth wide open, then presses it closed. Open. Closed. It hurts a little, because the muscles are stiff. Open _wide_ , the pad of a thumb fitted perfectly into the indent of his chin. Then closed.

"Right," says John, moving behind him to untie and remove Sherlock's blindfold. The beige light of the kitchen is dazzling.

John turns to the counter. "Two of these, then," he says.

He turns back with a spoonful of some amber liquid, bringing it close enough that Sherlock can stretch to receive it. He does, mouth open, letting John slide the spoon between his lips. Like an infant, he thinks, with a brief, pleasurable stab of shame; then he is swallowing.

Bitter, unctuous liquid; It’s probably one of John’s natural laxative oils. He opens meekly for a second spoonful and lets himself be dosed. Afterwards, John wipes his chin and cheeks with a tea-towel soaked in warm water.

"Good," says John. Sherlock twitches in his restraints. The praise always hits him hard.

"Straight to bed now, I think," says John, opening the Velcro straps to lever Sherlock up and out of the chair. Sherlock feels dazed and almost stumbles; his body's not used to being sated. But John catches him and guides him into the back bedroom, where the bed has been remake with crisp white sheets. Hospital corners, Sherlock notes. A packet sitting open by the pillow.

John gets him laying on his side, lifts the back of the robe so that he can access Sherlock’s backside. _'The business end,'_   he calls it sometimes, as if Sherlock is just a pipe with an outlet.

Sherlock closes his eyes. The case is solved, and his transport is returned to John’s capable hands; there’s really no need for his participation.

John parts his buttocks, holding them open to have a look the way one might casually peruse the contents of the cupboard. "Steady, now." Then something cold and slimy nudges up against his anus. Sherlock hisses and might have tried to shift away except that he knows it’s futile.

John taps his hip - a warning to behave – and then the suppository, no doubt meant to awaken his sluggish bowels, is smoothly inserted, followed by John’s fingertip, holding it in until the heat of Sherlock’s body can get to work at melting it.

A little deeper. Sherlock grunts at the penetration, John’s finger asserting itself so unceremoniously into his soft, shy corners. Soon there will be no secrets left between them, he thinks with some satisfaction; John will drag them all out into the light and have a good look.

"Easy now," says John, twitching the robe more closely over Sherlock’s front. "Almost done. You’ll want a nice long sleep after this, eh?" He checks his watch and slides out the intruding digit, leaving Sherlock sporadically clenching.

He knows he’ll wake to an urgency and John will monitor him through that as well, cool and attentive.

The back of the robe is replaced respectfully, but a hand on his shoulder keeps Sherlock on his side. "Roll on your front, if you need to shift," John warns, covering him with the sheet. "You need to keep that inside you so it can do its job."

Sherlock humbly murmurs his agreement. His front sounds good. Face down on his belly like an animal, and maybe he can hump his half-hard cock into the sheets and John will notice and chuckle gently.

But John just gives his backside a pat and gets up from the bed. Sherlock immediately wants him back, his consideration, his concern. Wants that hand stroking his curly hair out of his face or rubbing his back or perhaps even lower.

For all the times they've done this, John has never pursued anything more than the management of the transport. Sherlock feels sure there are other things that could be done with his mouth and his anus, if anybody was interested.

But he’s already falling asleep and after breakfast - where he might have to endure a second feeding, unless he can demonstrate a very good appetite - there will be another case. Perhaps for a short while he can escape the demands of the meat, exist as pure intellect. Until John returns to drag him back down into the muck and mire.

“Straight to sleep, Sherlock,” John warns from his spot in the doorway. "Don't make me tell you again."

Sherlock huffs and closes his eyes.

Dreams of a feast.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I honestly don't think this is necessary, John," Sherlock mutters, holding his position, kneeling naked on the bed.

"Drop down on to fours for me, would you?"

John has inspected Sherlock’s bloated abdomen quite thoroughly already, asked him humiliating questions about the quality and frequency of his stools, and then determined that Sherlock is, in his own words, ‘all backed up.’

Apparently it’s the result of his irregular digestive habits.

So now John is standing between his spread thighs, one bracing hand on the inside of his knee, coaxing him to open wider. Sherlock lowers himself slowly, feeling deliciously on display; the jutting ridge of his arched spine; his elegant neck submissively bowed; even the lifted soles of his overly large and bony feet. All his parts, available for John's enjoyment.

"That's it, that's the ticket. Now, I know, mate, you've made your feelings known about this. But I say you need it, and we agreed what I say goes when it comes to the transport. So, take a nice breath, in through your nose. Let it out. Good man."

John's slick finger rubs soothingly around his anus, spreading the lube, and then slips inside. Sherlock moans softly at the sensation of being penetrated, although it doesn't really hurt.

"Down onto your elbows, please," says John briskly, feeling around. Sherlock does as instructed, his rump up in the air, his head humbly down on the pillows. He must look ridiculous. John rewards him for his obedience by easing in a little further.

"Ah! - _oh,_ John."

"Sorry, sorry, but if you didn't let yourself get into this state, we wouldn't be here, would we," John murmurs, distracted. "Be good for me and just relax now. Come on, Sherlock, relax your bottom for me. You're used to this, after all this time, surely. Bear down - clench, that's it, good. There we go. All done with that." The finger slides out. "Now, reach back and hold yourself open for me, and we'll get started."

Sherlock has to rest his cheek on the pillow to obey, supporting his weight on his shoulders. It’s almost like John is holding him down, forcing his face into the pillowcase, helpless (except for the way he parts his own cheeks like an offering).

He can hear clattering behind him as everything is set up; John had already mixed and warmed the mixture to approximately body temperature. "I can’t find my usual nozzle," says John. "I’m afraid we’ll have to go with the extra large this time."

Sherlock makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder at the apparatus. "You’re not really going to - John, you can’t be serious. There’s no way all that will be able to fit in my - rectal cavity."

"Pish posh, you know some fellows love a whole fist up the arse! And here's you sniveling at a little thing like this. Alright, here comes the nozzle now."

"Oh no, please," whimpers Sherlock decadently - "Oh,  _John!"_

The feeling of that thick, impersonal tube, rudely bullying its way into Sherlock's loosened little channel - the cool, slick plastic and his overheated flesh - creeping deeper and deeper into his bowel ... the _profundity_ , of being taken this way, face down, powerless ...

"Shsh, you’ll feel better with a nice clean bottie, won't you."

He wishes it was John's cock, Sherlock realizes, taking the corner of the pillowcase between his teeth. He wishes desperately that his present circumstances were not merely the result of John's obsession with maintaining the transport (both input and output) but were instead the manifestation of his uncontrollable desire for Sherlock himself. Oh God, to be stripped, pushed down, and _fucked!_

"I’m going to start the liquid now," says John. He guides Sherlock’s thighs together to squeeze tight around the tube. Sherlock hisses. "Be a good lad, here we go." 

The water exerts no pressure at first, only a faint sensation of warmth. Sherlock bites back a sob at the first sense of loosening deep inside him. He's conscious of his own member stiffening between his legs.

"Shh, Sherlock," says John, leaning over to stroke Sherlock’s short curly hair, then down to squeeze the back of his neck, then carefully rubbing his back. "Sh-sh-sh, it doesn’t hurt, does it? It’s only a nice small one, you can take it all. Is it too hot?"

Sherlock sniffles. "You know it’s not." He can feel himself slowly filling, the water seeming to expand to lovingly press against every nook and cranny inside of him. He shifts, wishing he could adjust his cock, which is twitching now -

"Ah," says John, who has leaned over to see what the trouble is. "No worries, Sherlock - it ... it just takes some people like that, it doesn’t mean anything – perfect natural reaction – "

"It’s for you," says Sherlock miserably. "Actually. If you – want it."

John pauses.

"You never said anything," he says. His hands trace delicately over Sherlock's flushed, naked rear. It’s a distinctively less medical touch than Sherlock has grown accustomed to.

"Didn’t think you’d appreciate it," says Sherlock. He's got his eyes closed tight.

He feels the heat as John bends over him. “I thought I was imagining things. I didn’t think there was any way a gorgeous, brilliant creature like you would be interested in a worn-out soldier like me.”

Sherlock is floating. This feels ... good. The gentle, insistent pressure of the liquid, filling up his guts, all his empty spaces. John’s hands on him, his eyes on him, something firm and full in his arse, John’s fingers, almost – close enough – to –

"Hello there," says John, amused. He doesn't pull his fingers off of Sherlock’s tongue. Just a gentle restraint, like a curb bit on a naughty horse. Just a reminder who's in charge.

"Mm," says Sherlock, sucking sleepily.

"You, ah, like this, eh?" says John thoughtfully. "Is it the ... being at my mercy?

Being under his care, more like - being nothing but the object of his care.

"Don’t go dozing off," warns John, still stroking Sherlock’s thighs with his free hand. "You’ve taken the whole bag, now you've got five minutes to hold it before you can to go to the loo."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

"None of that. We need you empty this little bum so I can fill it up."

He peeks to make sure John means sex - means to insert an object, to whit his penis, into Sherlock's squeaky-clean posterior (or in fact his tongue, maybe he will let Sherlock suckle his cock while he sees to the  _business end_ that way - Sherlock is up for anything).

John is smiling.

"Yes doctor," says Sherlock, breathlessly. "Whatever you think is necessary. Ah, medically speaking. Of course."

"Git," John laughs.


End file.
